


Toppat Recruit

by VenomQuill



Series: Stickmin Collection fics [6]
Category: Henry Stickmin Series (Video Games)
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Recruitment, Selectively Mute Right Hand Man (Henry Stickmin)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:48:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26981668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenomQuill/pseuds/VenomQuill
Summary: "Nobody knows his true name."As night falls on the third day away from the ruffian thugs for whom he worked, he found a strange difference on the walk home. There was a man in a suit and a top hat standing in the street, alone below the darkness of a broken lamp. What he expected the day to be was a long one of struggling to find money for food and rent and a short time to eat dinner before bed. What he was not expecting were two people who claimed to be from the infamous Toppat Clan standing at his doorstep.
Series: Stickmin Collection fics [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983670
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	Toppat Recruit

**Author's Note:**

> Find it on dA: https://www.deviantart.com/venomquill/art/Toppat-Recruit-857979080

_Drip… drip… drip…_

He walked with his head down. A moth-eaten hoodie covered him, stretching down to the cuffs on his wrists. His hands were stuck firmly in the pockets of his hoodie, and his head and fiery red hair beneath the plain hood. The fingers of his left hand touched warm metal, while his left curled back to his wrist to touch the leather strap just above his hand. Although he walked with his head down and his ears beneath the fuzzy hood, he listened. His own soft breathing and heartbeat were lost to him as he inspected his surroundings, breathing in the dirty smells of the dank, lightless street and listening to the happenings of the buildings and alleys. This wouldn’t be his first time being jumped here, nor would it be his last. He just needed to be prepared when the time came.

His old shoe splashed a puddle on the worn sidewalk. He flinched at the headlights of a car that whizzed past, bringing with it a spray of filthy water to soak his hoodie. Water dripped from part of his handlebar mustache. He spat and glared at the road but didn’t cease his walking.

His blackish brown eyes flicked up as he saw another figure. A well-dressed man stood upon the dark street like a flare. His top hat looked rather crooked, but the rim was straight, and no wrinkles were in it, so it was probably created that way. What a man in a suit and tie was doing in this trashy part of the neighborhood was beyond him.

He narrowed his eyes. Despite the well-dressed man not looking at him, he ducked into the one of the run-down apartment complexes, anyway. It didn’t take long of moving and then slipping out an employee’s only exit to find the alleyway, where he found his own little house. It was small and quaint, run down but obscured by all the other trashy little houses huddled near each other like frightened rats.

He walked in through the backdoor, that being the quickest way in from his direction, and relocked the door behind himself. He made a quiet sweep of the small area. There was hardly anything inside, aside from basics like furniture and a dirty pot on the stove and dishes in the sink. He rinsed his face and hands of the oily water in the bathroom sink. He checked his refrigerator, pleased to find leftovers from the previous night still wrapped up. After finding a stray dish and activating the microwave for a few seconds, he ate his solitary dinner, deep in thought.

It wasn’t long before he heard a shuffle outside. He froze, his fork piled with macaroni noodles and bits of meat halfway to mouth. Two voices shared a quick conversation before one knocked and the second chided the first.

He set down his fork and, one hand stuck in his pocket, fingers gripping the metal object in his hoodie, made his way to the door. He peered into the little looking hole in the door to find _two_ people–one of them the well-dressed man in the intentionally crooked hat and the second in a smaller black top hat with the beginning of a small black mustache.

He thought about not answering. These two men were nothing like the ruffians that scurried about his neighborhood. They could be from the government or perhaps from his former place of work. Well, he’d gained a reputation and if these two hadn’t heard of it, they would understand it.

He opened the door. It clanked against the metal chain of the sliding lock just above his doorknob and he peered through the gap.

The two turned their attention to him. “Hello,” greeted the crooked hat one. “You are Travis?”

He grunted. Well, that’s what the last people called him.

The small hat one gave his partner a look. The crooked hat one ignored him. “Well, we have heard about you, and we would like to talk about an opportunity that might interest you. if you would let us speak?”

He nodded. Well, the man was talking already, wasn’t he?

The crooked hat one’s eyes flicked around his surroundings. “Eeeeeh, any chance we could talk somewhere more private?”

He blinked. Well… he could let them inside, which is what the crooked hat one was hinting about. But he’d already made that mistake once. …still, these ones didn’t _look_ like those from his former place of “employment.” Could a small guppy group of thieves and hired muscle be _called_ a place of employment? Well, there was a way to get fired from it, that’s what he learned from the experience.

As these two probably didn’t look the type to go rolling around with the vermin he’d grown accustom to, he shut the door. Then, with slight reluctance, he pulled back the lock and opened it a little farther, one hand still firmly in his hoodie pocket. He stepped back to allow them room, not once taking his eyes off them, and shut the door behind them.

If they were perturbed by the blank surroundings, they didn’t show it. Instead, they stayed the entrance to the living room/kitchen.

“Well, you can call me Sherman,” the crooked hat one greeted. “We know your most recent alias is Travis, but you’ve gone by Lucas as well, correct?”

He nodded, more on edge were that possible.

“Well! We have heard quite a bit about you,” said Sherman. “And someone told our chief. He’s taken a bit of interest in you. We are from the Toppat Clan. Have you heard of us?”

He gave them a curt nod. Yes, he’d heard of some big organization of people who wore top hats. He’d just assumed his boss hadn’t caught their name and called them “Top Hats.” Any time that clan swooped in, they ducked out. Small guppy, meet big shark.

“Oh, good! Well, to clear up any rumors you may have heard, we are a clan of thieves,” Sherman announced, squaring his shoulders with a bit of a proud smile. “You yourself brought quite a bit of wealth to table in your last organization. You are fairly skilled, aren’t you? With weapons and thievery?”

He nodded with a small grunt.

Sherman looked at the one with the small top hat and then back at him. “Now, to keep things short and sweet, Chief Wilford IV took interest in you and your skillset. He asked us to formally offer you a place in our ranks.”

He narrowed his eyes. So, he’d been chased out of a small “organization” and half a week later he was offered a job that was beyond the scope of anyone he’d ever met? What kind of fool did they take him for?

Sherman held up a hand. “Now, we understand this can be a bit of a shock. After all, you may not have ever met a Toppat in person. With your last job, we’re probably the last ones you’d be willing to trust. So, we will give you a week to think this over. Wilhelm and I will come back in a week’s time at the same hour. Regardless of your decision, we won’t hound you. If you deny our offer, we’ll simply go. You don’t even need to open the door for us. But if you accept it, we’ll meet up with Chief Wilford IV. In fact, we recognize times may be tough for you, and our presence will only poke a hole in any plans you may have, so hopefully this will help you through the week.” He stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out a folded wad of bills.

He took it from the Toppat and looked it over. He spotted at least ten twenty-dollar bills. He looked up at the man.

“Yes, you may be skeptical, but that’s legitimate. You can check yourself. Buy yourself a meal, perhaps new clothes. We have a couple of hats back at the ship if you’d like to see them.” Sherman tipped his hat to him. “Good evening. Would you like for us to call you Travis or is there another alias you prefer?”

He shook his head.

“…neither, I assume?”

He gave him a brisk nod.

“Very well. This should be interesting, hmm?” With that, Sherman and Wilhelm let themselves out.

He stuffed the bills in his pocket and relocked both locks on his door. He went back to his already cold meal. Although he kept an ear out for the sounds outside his house, he slowly started to lose himself to his thoughts.

So, the Toppats wanted him. He’d been skeptical, but they all but tossed two hundred dollars at him, tipped their top hats goodbye, and left. They stood straight and tall and wore nice suits, unworried despite the fact their dress and stature made them beacons in the dark for any poor fool with a knife. He had a feeling they weren’t defenseless, but neither was he. They seemed to… respect that? Was that the word for it? Not only that, but Sherman didn’t blink an eye at his silence. His muteness tended to drive “good willed” people to annoyance. More often than not, they’d accidentally spill their ulterior motives or thoughts–“I was being _nice_ to you, you ungrateful vagrant,” “Aren’t we supposed to be working together, watching each other’s backs?” and “You’re lucky I’m not throwing you off the premises,” being the most popular ones–but even if they didn’t, they wouldn’t often be calm with him. In fact, he’d lost many a job offer because they didn’t like the fact he didn’t talk.

_Just like dear old mother._

Perhaps they were used to mutes like him. That would be a strange change of pace, wouldn’t it? The thought made him a little happy, he supposed. He could do what he was best at doing without ridicule and with valid reason. But of course, the skeptical, paranoid side of him screamed otherwise. He’d made it this far being cautious and independent, even with his rebellious streak while younger and his stubborn tendency to laser focus. Even the small gang he’d joined was an alliance of convenience. He could strike out on his own if he so desired, and he did at one point. But being near others and taking others was convenient to him. He enjoyed following orders, if he was going to be honest, but wasn’t afraid to give orders if necessary. Well, giving orders would require talking. That wasn’t something he was used to doing, so leadership was a little tough, he supposed.

He had a week to think this over, and even money to last comfortably until so and then beyond if he passed the opportunity. Though, it was just that: an opportunity. Maybe it was a trap, maybe he’d finally be killed from some people who wanted him dead for some reason. His old boss could change his mind about a “mute, coward fag” being no threat to him and go after him. Though how the man would afford Toppats, or even want their aid, or even if Toppats did that sort of thing, which he heard they didn’t, was beyond him. He was quite skilled, able to wield near any weapon he could get his hands on or turn whatever was close by into a weapon. He was a rather good thief, following through with any jobs or heists he was sent on to the bitter end, if need be, which nearly happened a couple of times. It could be possible he was being given an opportunity to change his life.

A small part of him was admittedly a little excited. He indeed heard rumors, even legends, about the Toppat Clan.

A noise outside caused him to jump and he looked up at the window blocked by curtains. No shadows interrupted the moonlight. He looked down at his plate, seeing it empty. Inwardly, he swore to himself and then collected his dishes, throwing the plastic dishware in the sink for later and moving to bed. Now more than ever he needed to keep a keen eye and ear out. At any moment, something could change, and he could be faced with danger. He had only been planning on staying at this house a few days, at most–confident because of his lack of ability to strike back against his former boss who was just as confident as he about that fact. But the longer he stayed, the less likely his former boss was to stay inert.

Well, he shouldn’t be losing any sleep over it. So, to bed he went, door shut, hoodie slung over his dresser, and alarm set. Perhaps he should take Sherman’s advice and buy some food and maybe, if he decided to go through with this offer, a suit. Those two wore proper suits even in this dingy part of the neighborhood. They gave him money just for thinking over the deal. That was probably for what they intended it to be used.

He slept well through the night, waking only by his alarm’s annoying screams. Despite whatever his dreams were like–be they forgetful or pleasant or nightmares–he slept deeply through it. Another power he had, he supposed. A few people knew this and saw this as an easy opportunity to harm or kill or capture him in his sleep. But his jumpiness dictated that when he woke to something he didn’t expect–such as something grabbing him–whatever or whoever it was quickly got put back into place. A couple of fractured wrists and near death by strangulations later and the pestering stopped, thankfully.

But now he was plagued by indecision. He very much so wanted to take this offer, but his paranoia reared its ugly head and made damn sure he wasn’t going to be positive about this ordeal. Anything could happen, regardless of his much sense it made or not.

Well, even when he washed himself up in a shower and walked in his most presentable clothes–a long sleeve shirt and jeans–he wasn’t very well respected. Yes, he had a knife hidden up his sleeve, a gun strapped to his beck, a few other weapons hidden in his shoes. But no one could see that. That meant that the staff of one of the higher end clothing stores weren’t required to give him shifty looks. He abandoned his hoodie to lose suspicion.

His muscles tensed and his felt his heart skip and flutter. His left hand twitched to rub of the straps on his wrist, but he couldn’t do that without raising suspicion. His right hand twitched in rapid sign language, sticking firm to his side. He needed to do _something_ with his hands. So, his fevered thoughts translated to unheard words that fumbled as he lost his concentration.

Still, he walked through the store with as much calm and dignity as he could muster–which wasn’t much of the former, but he could manage the latter–searching for a suit he could wear. There were dozens of formal clothes, both in pieces and full suits. He didn’t like the price tags, nor did he like the clothes themselves. He felt they were too thin, too open. They didn’t have the comfort of his hoodie, able to mask his face whenever he needed it and holding no pockets large enough to hide his hands and his self defense mechanisms. It was true that he could defend himself without firearms, but it was rare someone didn’t bring a gun to a knife fight.

After about half an hour of pacing back and forth in front of the different suits, he found one that _might_ do. It had pockets in the jacket and in the pants themselves. It didn’t have buttons in the front, meaning he had a potentially wider range of motion. There was a tight collar, but it was made such by buttons that didn’t need to be latched together. He still didn’t know how well he would be able to wear it, but it was _something._ He nudged the different hangers to find his size and carefully plucked one out and draped it over his arm.

He started to make his way to the changing room but decided against it. He knew his clothes size, and he wasn’t about to change clothes somewhere as defenseless as a _changing room._

The woman at the cash register was giving him a weird look, but he didn’t mind. What he _did_ mind was how there were people in front of him and behind him. He knew he shouldn’t be looking behind him, but he could _feel_ the heat of their eyes on the back of his neck. He went back to signing with his right hand.

At the counter, the lady tried to speak with him. Upon being met with nothing but some visible language–a nod or shake of his head, a quiet mumble that might have been imaginary–she quit and packed away his new suit in what looked like a giant plastic bag made specifically for clothes. That was probably what it was, anyway.

He left as quickly as he could without breaking into a run, his head ducked and his dark eyes flicking from place to place. His heart didn’t slow until he passed the threshold of his home. Even then, he needed to pace and take deep breaths. The suit was set down on his bed and he moved his hands in front of himself in unintelligible nonsense. Eventually, his heart slowed to a normal rhythm and he could see through clear eyes and he could relax.

He sat down on his couch, elbows on his knees and fingers intertwined on his lap. Well, he bought the suit. He had a few small bottles of soap foreign to him, and a couple of meals for the week. He still had some extra money, thankfully. Hell, maybe if he didn’t become a Toppat, he could find himself working in some business. He looked less like a thug without his hoodie. But what sane person in any half decent job would take _him?_ That was a ridiculous idea, there was nothing else about it. He _was_ just a thief and thug, and there would be no changing that.

A knock came to the door. He sat bolt upright, his eyes snapping to the door. He knew it was about time for them to arrive. With a quick check of his watch, he found they were very on time. He pulled the sleeve of his suit over his wrist and, as he made his way to the door, dusted himself off one last time. He unlocked the doorknob and opened the door, allowing the chain lock to clink as it was pulled tight. They were there alright; Sherman and Wilhelm.

“Good evening,” Sherman greeted. “Have you considered our offer?”

He nodded.

“Great! Now, would you mind coming with us to meet with our chief?”

He shut his door, pulled back the chain lock, and opened the door. They stepped aside to let him out. He locked his door, slipping back so they were both clearly in his sight. Sherman went on the move, Wilhelm at his side.

He ran his fingers over the leather straps around his wrist, feeling the pommel of his knife fit snugly within. His gun was once again strapped the small of his back. He had a few knifes in his boots. Still, he didn’t like it. He liked his hoodie, he needed it. He’d worn the scrappy thing for _years_. Why did he need to stop now?

A car was parked on the side of the road just outside the complex; shiny and new looking. Sherman took the front seat and Wilhelm passenger. He hesitated but complied. As they moved, his twitched his fingers in messy sign language. He watched the road, intently focused on the signs and turns they took.

They were on the road for a long time.

He swallowed and kept his eyes on the road. His fingers started to cramp, but he ignored the discomfort.

The car slowed before a house. Two other cars were there; a simple one in the driveway and another nice looking one parked on the curb. He evacuated the vehicle, struggling to stay as inconspicuous and dignified as ever. Tasting fresh air certainly helped with his fiercely beating heart. Thankfully, neither Sherman nor Wilhelm seemed to notice his change in emotion. He would be surprised if they did; he was rather good at masking his emotions, after all.

Sherman knocked on the door. A woman with cropped black hair met them. A top hat that looked dark gray, though perhaps in the light it had a slight greenish hue, sat snugly atop her head. She looked over the two and then at him. She opened the door wider and stepped aside. “About time you arrived, without a call ahead.”

Sherman clicked his tongue as they entered. “We didn’t have a long drive, and we left from this house, Carol.”

He was acutely aware of the door shutting behind them.

“Chief Wilford IV and Terrence are in the living room,” Carol stated with a brisk wave of her hand down the hall.

Sherman lead them to the living room, Carol walking in behind them with one last glance at the door.

Inside the living room sat two men. One a rather gruff man, a visible scar crossing over his face and his top hat–or two? It was hard to tell but it was big with a large enough rim to bow under its own weight–pulled back to show off stormy gray eyes. Beside him sat a slightly cheerier man, a black top hat on his head and one elbow on the back of the couch. He waved hello and a glanced at Carol, who gave him the most scathing glare he’d ever seen come from a woman. Weirdly more than mother, he mused.

He found a seat near who he assumed was Chief Wilford IV and set his hands on his lap. He struggled to keep them still. There were _way too many_ people for him to take on at once.

The big hat chief looked over him, his chin up and back straight now that they were all sitting. “And you’re the man. You certainly look it.”

He wrinkled his eyebrows.

“We found you,” Chief Wilford IV stated. “We believe you’ve got the skills to be a good Toppat. And you dressed yourself well. Are you armed?”

He nodded.

“Well, good. You’d be stupid otherwise. We’re not going to attack you, mind you. Now, you’ve had a week to think over our offer. What is your answer?”

He nodded, unable to help the slight twitch of his fingers. _Well, here’s the test. What was his life in this man’s organization going to be like?_

“Good,” Chief Wilford IV stated. “And what’s your name?”

He shook his head.

“Hmm. Well, we can bring you back to the airship, pick out a hat, and see where you’re going to belong, Red.”

_Red. Okay, he could go by that._

“Terrence?”

The man beside him grinned. “Hey, Red!” He was a little surprised at the sudden appearance of a New Jersey accent. “Yep, we just need to get a few things straightened out, bit of paperwork and a new hat, you know. We can start with the initiation ceremony and by tomorrow you’ll be a full blown Toppat recruit. In time, could take weeks or months depending, we’ll see how you fair and talk about full benefits. You can stay living here, back at your house, or stay at the airship. We’ve got plenty of room for plenty more on-board members.

He… Red… nodded. This would be interesting.

Terrence hummed and turned to Chief Wilford IV, who stated, “Let’s get on the airship.”

Becoming a Toppat was not very complex, at least that he saw. Terrence handed him a paper with a big sleazy grin, so Red made sure to read the contract thoroughly. Strangely, it wasn’t really as much of a contract as a description of the Clan and what the jobs were and that the Clan was a family, and family doesn’t turn on family.

_Humph. Family doesn’t turn on family._

There were no convoluted sentences or weird wording, so he took a pen and _wrote_ his name, as there was no place to sign it. He looked up at Terrence. “You don’t need to sign it. It’s basically a paper saying that you’re a member of the Toppat Clan. Technically a recruit at the moment. But it’s going in the Records so we can keep track of our members or those former. For referencing, you know?” Terrence clicked his tongue and took the paper back. There were quite a few hats in the storage place. Red’s had a medium height but a long brim. His tenseness started to ease a little. He tipped his hat forward to shade his eyes. Just like his hoodie, he could hide. He was safe again. He had to take off the hat as it was some ritual at the ceremony.

The ceremony was loud and unfortunately cramped as so many people were there. Red was announced as the newest recruit and given his hat. Several people came to welcome him or congratulate him, but he never spoke a word and instead, quite tense and he himself afraid he would lock up and never move again, tipped his head and moved his hands in a vague manner in response.

“Eyyy! Reginald!” Terrence crowd, buddying up to one of the younger Toppats; Red’s age just about, maybe a year younger at nineteen? “Have you met Red, yet?”

The man next to him, Reginald, shook his head with a smile that matched his own. “No, I don’t believe so!” He had a British accent, though it was slightly less pronounced than people Red knew. Despite being on the younger side, he was dressed up in a fancy buttoned suit with a shirt bearing ruffles and an embroidered collar. His own top hat was a deep stormy gray. His light brown eyes met Red’s and he approached him. Red immediately became wary of the man. There was something to him… something he didn’t…

Oh. _Oh._ That look he had, the way he hovered beside Terrence and near Carol and a few others, the way he immediately responded as if expecting to be talked to; the man either thought he was more important than he was or was trying to _become_ more important than he should be. Red knew that kind of person, the kind of person who would fling another off a tower if it meant he got a slightly tighter grasp of the political system, a person who knew himself bound for greatness and _would_ achieve it regardless of any consequence he could easily tuck away if required. People like him were what put his old life to ruin in the first place. It would be interesting to see if history repeated itself.

Reginald held out his gloved hand. “My name is Reginald Copperbottom. I’m fresh out of recruitment myself. Your name is Red, then?”

Red took his hand with a slight nod. He could feel the tenseness in Reginald’s grip. He recognized Red just as Red recognized Reginald. Red was just a common thug who’d turn on him when the moment presented himself, huh?

He would be quite happy if he found his job would not cross with Reginald’s. Honestly, by the way his now worried and wary gaze met Red’s, he had a feeling Reginald felt the same.

**Author's Note:**

> So, Right Hand Man had a name before becoming Reginald's right hand, but no one knows what it is. He doesn't talk very much and is always next to Reginald. So my headcanon is that he doesn't care about names. He had no control over what his mother named him. He had no control over the color of his hair, so Red turned out to be a perfect mix. It was only after he earned something so special and mighty as being Reginald's right hand that he chose to use his title as his name.
> 
> I really like RHM, so I'm considering writing a few more little short stories involving him, as well as him and Reginald. I thought that they weren't always friends, and though they had similarities, they also had their differences. Major differences. RHM was incredibly loyal and never turned his back on a Toppat, not even Henry. Reginald was ready to toss Henry into the ocean to reclaim his place as Chief. So I thought having them be at odds (or at least distrustful of each other) but eventually, see each other eye to eye and become friends would be nice.
> 
> Also, I like the idea of Reginald being quite the talker, while RHM is mute. But RHM being a listener and a fighter, while Reginald gets distracted with his thoughts and isn't exactly a weapon savant. Reginald is shorter and more flashy, while RHM is taller but enjoys staying hidden.


End file.
